Sugarcoated Sam
by fanspired
Summary: So Sam and Dean stop at a cafe and Sam orders a jelly doughnut and a shake.  So what?  What's got Dean's cage rattled?  A bit of wincest fluff


_ Oh, you've got to be kidding me._

Dean watched as Sam dropped a plate on the table in front of him and parked his drink next to it. On the plate was a heavily sugar-dusted jelly doughnut. And the drink was a milkshake. With a straw.

"What are you doing?" Dean tried to keep the note of accusation out his voice.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"That's more sugar than you normally swallow in a month."  
>"What, I can't treat myself once in a while?" Sam lifted the milkshake and tipped it toward himself. His lips parted and Dean caught a glimpse of the edges of his teeth before his mouth closed over the straw. He drew his lips up the length of the tube and his cheeks hollowed. Dean watched the thick liquid edge up the inside to slip between Sam's lips, and just as his adam's apple bobbed in a long, slow swallow his eye-lashes fluttered upwards and his shining hazel eyes held Dean's as he drew the straw out of his mouth. It glistened wetly from his saliva.<p>

"What?"

_You have got to be fucking kidding me!_

"Nothing." Dean lifted his newspaper and tried to keep his attention on the headlines, tried to ignore the growing tightness in his thighs, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam reaching for the doughnut. Was he imagining that there was something overtly sensual in the way Sam's fingers closed around the doughy ring and pressed into its softness? Dean couldn't help glancing upward as Sam raised the pastry to his mouth. There was a brief flash of pink tongue just as his soft, full lips parted and rolled over its round edge before he put the doughnut down again with a half-moon shaped bite missing from it. He chewed slowly, his lips now coated with a dusting of fine, white sugar.

Dean passed his hand round the back of his own neck where the ends of his hair were already damp with perspiration. He couldn't focus on the newsprint. All he could think about was Sam's lips, and the sugar . . .and how long could anyone leave sugar on their lips without licking them, anyway? _Seriously, Sam, how much longer?_

And when he did lick them it was worse. First the tip of his tongue darted out and flicked over one side of his lower lip, leaving a clean red patch, then it curled sinuously over the other side, then it arched over the top lip in one long, smooth sweep. And now Sam's lips were damp and slightly sticky, and Dean actually had to clamp his jaws shut to stop a grunt of longing escaping from them. Knots of tension were tightening all the way down both sides of his spine.

And then the son-of-a-bitch took another bite.

Dean's grip tightened on the newspaper and he lifted it to screen off what Sam was doing on the other side of it. The edges of the paper were thoroughly damp under Dean's grasp.

"Anything?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean snapped, somewhat startled and discomfited by the sound of Sam's voice interrupting his thoughts.

"In the paper?" Sam added, his voice slightly thick with half chewed doughnut.

"Dunno yet".

"You ok?"

Dean looked up. _Oh, sweet jesus! _How Dean ached to lick that sugar off his brother's lips and feel their soft, silky texture under his tongue – to roll his own lips over them and feel them part so he could taste the depths of Sam's sweet mouth.

"I'm fine." It came out as a dry croak and Dean swallowed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam's lips curled into his mouth and emerged red and glossy. "I don't know; you just seem tense."

Dean traced his thumbnail across his eyebrow. "I'm fine, Sam. Just finish eating so we can get out of here, will you?" He took a large swig of his own coffee and found it was still hot enough to sear his mouth and throat as it went down, but he suppressed the pain and went back to pretending to read the newspaper.

"O – kay – ee . . ." Sam breathed, and picked up his milkshake. This time, as his lips withdrew from the straw it flicked from his mouth and a thick dribble of shake oozed down the side. Sam caught the drip on the tip of his tongue then drew it lazily up the straw, mopping up the residue.

"Oh, jesus, SAM!"

Sam's tongue froze at the tip of the straw. Dean grabbed the carton out of his hand and slammed it down on the table. "Will you, for fuck's sake stop . . . !" Dean searched desparately for something to say "st – stop playing with your food!"

Sam raised his eyebrows then they creased into a small frown. "I'm not." After a pause he added. "Man, you sure got out of the wrong bed this morning."

Dean's mouth dropped open. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Sam stared at Dean, apparently mystified. "Nothing. It was a just a joke, an expression .What is with you, Dean?"

Dean glared at his brother. Sometimes he wondered if Sam was truly the oblivious wide-eyed innocent he was making himself out to be, or whether Dean was just making a fricking idiot of himself getting irritated with him. He took another gulp of the scalding coffee. "Can we get done here?"

Sam sighed and shrugged again. He toyed with the sugar that was coating his fingers then lifted his hand toward his mouth.

_Oh no._

One by one, starting with his little finger, Sam slid each one into his mouth and sucked it slowly and thoroughly clean. By the end of the process Dean was watching him through half closed eyelids, his lips parted and his breath coming from between them in short, shallow gasps. Was it even possible that Sam could be unaware of what was going on here? Dean snatched up a paper napkin and thrust it under his brother's nose.

"You've got a napkin, you know! Right here!"

Sam was frozen again, this time with his thumb in his mouth and his fingers curled around his nose. He looked like a giant baby. He withdrew the thumb from his mouth with a soft slurp. "I didn't want to waste the sugar."

"Waste the . . . are you _kidding_ me?"

"Dean, have I done something to upset you?"

The nettled and slightly hurt tone in Sam's voice convinced Dean that he really was making a dick of himself. In the end he used the napkin to wipe the sweat off the back of his own neck and his hands then dropped it in a crumpled ball on the table. "I'm just tired, Sam. I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"How come?"

"It's the heat, Sam. You know how that makes me."

"You should try taking a cold shower before you go to bed."

Dean laughed quietly and bitterly. He had tried it. For the first time in his life. He'd always thought it was a stupid cliché. Why would anyone do that? If you get a boner you just get laid or jack off. But lately every time he reached for himself Sam's face would rise up in front of him and he'd find himself imagining doing things to it that were just _wrong. _He'd try to think of something else, some blonde blue-eyed waitress, but her hair would always turn brown, her eyes hazel, then she'd smile and her cheeks would dimple and Sam would be gazing up at him again, eyes warm and shining with invitation . . . and then he'd either have to stop or . . . so far he'd always stopped. But it was getting harder.

Sam bit into the doughnut again and jelly oozed everywhere, over the dough, over his hand and wrist and fingers, and as Dean watched Sam's lips and tongue lapping and slurping to retrieve it all he thought he might actually cry. He wished he could just get up and walk away, take himself and his thoughts somewhere private where they wouldn't bother anyone, but he didn't dare move. And now Sam was looking at him again and . . . _what the hell was that guy thinking_, Dean wondered?

They stared at each other in silence for a moment then Sam dropped the remnants of his pastry. "You know what? I'm done here." He picked up a napkin and started wiping off his hands.

"You sure?" Dean felt bad. So he'd finally succeeded in making Sam too uncomfortable to eat.

"Yeah, you were right. Too much sugar. I've had my fill."

"Well . . . fine." Dean reached into his pocket, pulled out the car keys and dropped them in front of Sam. "Go wait in the car for me. I need to visit the head before we leave."

"It's OK, I'll wait for you here."

"Sam, go wait in the damn car!"

Sam sat rigid as a poker with that wooden, expressionless look of defiance he always wore on his face whenever Dean barked an order at him. Then he shook his head and picked up the keys. "Fine, whatever." And he left.

Dean stared glumly at the half eaten doughnut for a few moments then checked around to make sure there was no one watching before easing himself out of the booth and heading for the back room. Once there he turned on the cold tap and let it run while he ripped paper towels out of the dispenser one after another. Crumpling them into a wad he held them under the chill flow, and he smacked his forehead with a heavy crack against the cold wall.

. . .

Sam couldn't be trusted in the Impala by himself. When Dean came back he had the radio on and was listening to Crowded House.

"There's a simple solution, you know?" he said as Dean dropped into the driver seat beside him.

Dean stared sharply at him. "What?"

The corners of Sam's lips twitched into a hesitant smile. "Get a new car with air-con?" he suggested sheepishly.

Dean had to admire his audacity for poking the bear's cage. "You're not funny, Sammy," he growled affectionately. "You're not close to funny."

Sam grinned and levered back his seat. "Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over . . . " he sang tunelessly as he stretched his length out across the upholstery.

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel and he reached forward and shoved the tape back into the cassette player. As he steered into the traffic, "Highway to Hell" blasted from the speakers.


End file.
